Anima Concordia
by Bronsky Ellia
Summary: Harry is abused by Vernon Dursley and can't take it anymore. While he is unconscious, loosing blood and life, the Horcrux inside him takes it upon itself to bring Harry to safety.
1. Prologue

**Anima Concordia**

(" _Soul Harmony" - Latin_ )

 _Pestis eram vivus - moriens tua mors ero_

 _(Living, I was your plague ... dying, I shall be your death)_

 _Martin Luther  
_

 _aut simul stabunt aut simul cadent_

 _( they will either stand together, or fall together)_

 _Pope Pius XI_

 **Prologue**

He came to his senses with a low moan. Where was he? The room was dark, so he could not make out anything aside from the surface he was laying at: some kind of bed with dark canopy above, supported by posters. Pretty much like Hogwarts, although he suspected this was not his school dormitory.

He remembered coming late in the evening to the Number Four, Privet Drive from the neighborhood park, only to find, that Petunia was gone to some friend's house for the whole week of her holidays. Dudley was nowhere to be seen, probably, too, at some of his friends'. To Harry's dismay Vernon preferred to stay back home, supposedly, to keep an eye on the house, or, more possibly, on "the Freak". Either way, when Harry came in, Dursley Sr. had already been drinking for a while. At first, he didn't acknowledge Harry's presence at all. But them something irked Vernon enough, that he barged in on Harry, who had been already half-asleep in his bed -

The very last thing Harry remembered was Vernon towering over him, undoing his own belt with one hand and grabbing Harry by the collar of his pyjama-shirt with another, then throwing him on the floor -

And then there was only blackness.

He was not sure, how many hours – or even days - had passed from that first time, when Vernon came to his room, while the other Dursleys were absent. The was another half-clear memory: Harry's in the bathroom with door closed, Vernon is outside, banging his fists against the said door and making threats loudly in the drunken voice. He tuned the shouts out, fascinated with something under his feet -

Pinkish water was pooling under his hunched form, him sitting in the shower after slipping on the wet floor and banging his head on the glass wall of the cubicle, crashing it on the way. He absently ran his hand along the poodle of his own blood diluted in the water, which was already running cold. His fingers caught on something, and, his mind still in a daze, he took the big glass shard out of the water.

 _Wonder, what' they'll tell the neighbours if I'm gone – And what' she'll do? Hating mother, as she was, she was still her sister – I am tired – so tired -_

He bolted upright on the bed, eyes wide with shock. He just did _**what**_?!

Never once before in his life – as miserable, as it sometimes was – he'd turned to such stupid, gruesome things as taking the glass shard to his own throat -

He quickly grabbed the sore spot there. Indeed. There was thin, but rather pronounced line there, under his fingers which started to tremble at the thought.

Yeah, times with the Dursleys were hell, sometimes even worse than that. But he mostly just throw everything out of his head the minute he boarded the train to Hogwarts. His friends suspected things, they did. But he tried really hard to pretend. To _forget_. To put it aside and _move on_. What happened this time? What'd changed?

He didn't remember, though was afraid, it should probably be better to leave it that way. Probably, it was for the best, that he could not clearly make out anything beyond that stupidity with the glass - He shuddered.

And then the bed under him shifted. It was not his own movement, that disturbed the mattress, he was sure, as now he felt the slight incline towards the other half of the bed under obvious weight, indicating there was someone there. The surface underneath him shifted once again. He heard low voice. Moaning. Clearly, the person was asleep, but that sleep was restless.

At last Harry's eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough, that he could make out the even darker form, lying at the other side of the bed, the blanket thrown off to the middle of the room, the stranger's half-naked body slightly shivering in the night's breeze from the nearest window.

Hurry tried to gulp nervously, but that was obviously a mistake: instead he heard himself whining pitifully at the pain in his injured throat.

Either the other person was very light sleeper, or Harry alerted him in some other way beside his barely audible groaning. The next second Harry felt the wand press painfully into the curve of his throat, catching on the wound there, which caused even more discomfort. The stranger tried to grab him by the front of the robes, but found them non-existing, as Harry was naked, as anyone would be if they came straight from the shower.

This time Harry did gulp with some difficulty, feeling the other's wand sinking deeper into the wound: the eyes boring into his own were glowing blood-red.

"Voldemort," Harry managed, before he collapsed onto the other's bare chest, unconscious.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

One second he was sleeping, though not peacefully, his dreams filled with screams and blurred figures, either beating him or launching in disturbing and humiliating way on his unclothed form, causing pain and nausea and gut-wrenching shame in him. The next second he, not even fully awake yet, launched himself on the intruder he felt appearing in his bedroom – in his _bed_ \- with his wand out and at the throat of the stranger in an instant. He went for the stranger's collar, only to find it absent, as were the rest of his clothes. He pressed his wand more fiercely at the person's throat, his eyes widening in surprise, meeting with the familiar bright-green ones, just as they, too, had widen in shock.

The other just uttered his name and the next second he was leaning, no falling forward and onto him, toppling them both over the edge of the bed and onto the floor.

For several long moments he was just laying there, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

His house was thoroughly and heavily warded. So much so, that even his most trusted people could not enter or perceive its location. He held his meetings with them elsewhere, always leaving only after he was certain, that none of them were following, and even then he never directly Apparated here, all the time jumping to random locations first, and then coming to the village several miles away by the untraceable Portkey and walking here on foot. Yes, he was paranoid, but that was sensible paranoia, with him being the most feared, but at the same time the most wanted criminal of their world.

And now this -

Potter in his house, in his clutches, helpless and unconscious. With Potter's state of absolute undress it was pretty obvious, that he was not bearing his wand. Although, knowing the so-called Light side, they may have taught him wandless magic, he thought.

Or not.

The boy was in no shape for fighting, he realized, finally getting up from the floor, while still holding the unmoving and thoroughly beaten naked form in his arms. It looked like Potter had gone through something very similar to the events from his own dream: the brat was covered in bruises and cuts all over his body, which was too light for the boy his age. And the blood -

He spelled the lights on, putting the Potter's body onto the bed and looking him over. For some reason unbeknownst to him such amount of thick half-dried blood, covering the body on the bed, made him feel -

Strange, that was the right word for it, as he couldn't dare to acknowledge that the view in front of him made him angry at whoever did this, and that his feeling of vulnerability had nothing to do with someone breaching his wards, but everything to do with his obsession with the boy.

Potter was his – either to bring him pain, or to relive him from it – and where did that thought came from, he didn't want to know, but, anyway, Potter was his. Full stop.

And maybe there was something else in there, powering his sense of vulnerability, some very real, magical and very out-of-place feeling, drawing him to the still form on the bed, nagging at the back of his mind, trying to tell him something. Something important, very probably -

But he now had more pressing matter at his hands.

Potter was still bleeding, red wetness soaking the sheets under him, and the spot, which was growing bigger the quickest and very steadily, at that, was the dark-red pool between boy's slightly parted thighs. That disturbed him a bit more than the fact, that the tip of his own wand, which just recently was pressed to the boy's throat, was covered in blood, too. He could not cut the boy so deep, that cut should have been there even before that. And that cut worried him, too.

Beside these two alarming injures, he could make out several broken ribs, wrongly bent ankle, swollen wrist and – he managed to turn the boy onto his side to look at his behind – several long and deep gashes decorated his backside, their site reminding him of his own long-forgotten teen age and spankings he was quite often subjected to at the orphanage he lived in his summers.

He cursed loudly and bit his lip, blinking surprisingly.

Did he just - ? He almost never swore, rarely even raised his voice, and only at his most stupid of followers, preferring to hiss instead, as that made them tremble and cover in fear more successfully. Usually, the more angry he got the quieter he became. It was more fitting. He never really understood the necessity of angry shouting at imbeciles, as the shouts seemed to numb their meager brains to mushy nothingness completely. On the contrary, if one needed to strain his ears to hear the order, the possibility of this order sinking in his brain proper became higher, as well as the probability of this order seen through to its completeness.

Shaking his head, he pointed his wand at the body before him, casting several diagnostics spells, some of his own invention, as he never fully trusted anyone with his own health. Then he performed couple of the more mild healing spells, fixing the least serious of boy's injuries.

All the while, he tried really hard not to dwell on his own actions, not to think that he should be just glad and thankful to whomever fulfilled his task for him, making his ultimate enemy suffer and bringing him closer to death, than he, Voldemort, had ever managed to. Scoffing at the thought, as he was unsuccessful in pushing these musings out of his mind, no matter, how hard he tried, Tom, or rather Voldemort, continued his spellwork, carefully charming away Harry Potter's bruises and wounds.

He will think on it tomorrow, as the famous saying goes. For now he was content to just take care of the boy on his bed and grab some sleep, if the time permits after his task has been finished.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Harry woke, feeling better than he had in ages. Opening his eyes, he saw dark-blue canopy above him, the unfamiliar sight making him curious and a little worried. He scooped over to the edge of the bed, he'd slept at, intending to stand up and look around more. He was already raising to sit, when he heard the lazy and rather amused drawl behind him:

"I wouldn't lean on that hand, if I were you."

Harry quickly turned around and, not heeding the advice, put his weight on one hand. With a yelp of pain, mixed with surprise, he'd fallen on his back and hissed from the ache, shooting through his obviously injured hindside.

Harry looked at the occupant of the other side of the bed – a man in his thirties or early forties, with pale skin and fine features on handsome face, dark brown locks of hair falling constantly onto his face, hiding his eyes -

And then it hit Harry. He remembered waking in this same room just hours (or days?) before and coming face to face with red-eyed bastard of a murderer, Voldemort, and him getting a wand in the face from said bastard and -

Harry went red in the face, suddenly remembering how he collapsed on the chest of the man in front of him. And they both have been naked – or, in case of Voldemort, half-naked, as he had had then and still had now at least his sleeping pants on, although, like before, remained shirtless. Feeling absolutely humiliated, Harry looked at himself -

He was dressed. Or at least more dressed, than before, meaning, he was, too, sporting black and silky sleeping pants and no shirt. Though, the latter, probably had something to do with him bandaged like a mummy of sorts from waist up to his throat -

His less injured hand shoot upwards, to the wound on his throat. Still there. Probably will ever be, he thought bitterly.

His head was filling with blurred images of flashbacks to the time, when he cut himself. He remembered feeling tired, more like exhausted beyond everything and not caring about anything anymore, just wanting all of _this_ to end. What was _this_ , anyway? He tried so hard to recall the events from that night, that his head began to throb with dull ache, but -

Nothing. There was nothing in his memory. Only numbness and exhaustion and pain and -

He was shaking now, so much so, that his teeth clanked.

 _Blurry figure towering above him,_ _yanking him by the collar, throwing him to the floor -_

"Stop this right now!" someone growled. "You're giving me a migrane!"

Harry looked at Voldemort, now _towering_ above him with a snarl on his lips, and whimpered pitifully uncontrollably, trying to back away from the figure, looming above him so menacingly.

"Cease this nonsense right this instant!" Voldemort hissed, adding in clear outrage, "I'm not -" He abruptly closed his mouth firmly, with obvious uneasiness on his face, when Harry just crab-walked from him, ignoring his injured hand and back, moving as quick as he could at his state. His silky pants, as oversized as they were, caught on something and slipped from his waist, almost to his groin.

Harry noticed, that there, too, were even more bandages, covering him, like second skin. He shuddered, definitely not wanting to recall the particular reason for being bandaged in that area.

"Potter, either faint already or stop your stupidity," Voldemort commanded. "If I wanted to maim you I'd already done so. You've been here for several hours now and your limbs are still intact. That should count for something, no?"

"V-vold- Tom!" Harry rasped. His voice was weak and hoarse, talking was difficult and painful, so he turned to the easier way of addressing his opponent. "How - ?"

"That's my line," the other growled. "This place should be warded, unplottable and absolutely unreacheable. And yet," he made a gesture with his hand, as if to say "you are here". "And I don't even want to start on your injuries, or whomever caused them," he added, narrowing his eyes angrily. Harry was very surprised to notice, that those eyes were not blood-red, but of the very dark blue color, almost black, but not quite. Though, while Voldemort was speaking and getting more angry, that dark-blue color got the red tint to it, making Voldemort's eyes almost purple for a moment. Harry again tried to scoop away from these angry eyes and Voldemort's obvious fury, radiating from him in heated waves. Though why exactly he was angry and at whom, Harry couldn't even begin to comprehend, but he realized, that he was not the reason behind the outburst.

Seeing Harry's retreating form and hearing that pitiful whimper, uncontrollably escaping boy's lips, forced Voldemort to calm down a little, but he still was going to learn who did that to the Potter boy.

If he, Voldemort, only got anger and defiance from the teen in front of him at even the most horrid of their confrontations, he need to look that person, making the Boy Wonder whimper and shudder, in the eye, at least. And kill the worm, as no one was allowed to cause Potter more suffering than him! At least that was his reasoning, as he assessed the lithe form before him, mindful, still, so as not to bring attention or even to look at the area below the waist of Potter's pants, which at that moment began sliding further down -

"Oh," he pointed his wand on the embarrassing piece of clothes and muttered the appropriate incantation.

Harry, who stilled at the sight of the wand, like a hare before the cobra, ready to run at the opportune moment, was once again widening his eyes in surprise, when Voldemort only fixed his pants' size, so they fit him more closely, with the less threat of falling off his hips.

"So -?" Harry prompted.

"That, too, should be my line," Voldemort scoffed. "Although, seeing as your throat is not fit for long talks at the moment, this should do for now," holding his hand to the side he, it seemed, summoned some object, which glistened in the morning sun pouring from the window, when it came flying to his open palm: a vial. Vial of potion.

"I won't -" Harry rasped. He is not going to drink it! Either it's a poison, or Snape made it, though in Harry's book that counted as even worse, than mere poison.

"I'm not eager to force it down your throat, you know, but it will ease the pain and will work from the inside to assist in mending that horrendous wound you have there. Quite possibly, the scar will still be left afterwards, as too much time had passed, but at least you will be able to talk -"

"Still not drinking it -" Harry protested hoarsely.

"As you wish. But I will still require your talking in quarter of an hour necessary for the potion to work. Your choice: croak or talk in less painful way."

At that Voldemort got up, leaving the potion at the bed-side table, and went first to the wardrobe standing to the side from the bed, and then – through the door, presumably, leading to the bathroom, in the other corner of the room from where the bed stood.

Harry let out the breath he was holding, when the bathroom' door closed, only to be opened again in the next moment:

"Your glasses, horrid, as they are, rest near the bed, on the nightstand, beside the potion. Although, I daresay, you need new prescription and certainly new frames," Voldemort disappeared into the bathroom again.

Harry quickly grabbed his glasses. Horrid, or not, he won't be able to see without them!

Or will he -?

Harry blinked couple of times, as his vision only worsened, when he put the glasses on. He removed them. His vision still wasn't perfect, but he rather clearly could make out the big letters on the Voldemort's book on the other nightstand, across the bed, and saw perfectly well his own reflection, when he turned to the mirror, placed on the wall beside the wardrobe, even small details, like angry red gash at his cheek, going from the outer corner of his right eye and down to the outer corner of his swollen upper lip. His lower lip, too, was not pretty, as he'd bitten on it and made a small wound, splitting it almost evenly in two halves, like a bunny's. He snorted at the comparison, he'd made in his own head. If he was a bunny, then Voldemort should be – what? Snake? Though, he was already one. At least in terms of his Hogwarts house, if not his appearance anymore. That, too, like the rest of the bizarre morning was curious, strange and made Harry wonder, what had transpired after his last confrontation with that snake-like monster for him to turn into almost normal human being. Red eyes still counted as monstrous in Harry's opinion, but in general Voldemort was okay. Yeah, okay was the best thing Harry could come up with, though he never was too inventive in his assignments, let alone in things, not related either to school, or to the war efforts.

Sighing, Harry carefully touched the potion vial. Knowing Voldemort, he won't hold back, and he just promised Harry exactly that. Maybe the potion is Snape-made, or poison, though frankly Harry doubted that last bit. Voldemort said it himself: Harry was at his place for several hours and still had been alive. Even bandaged and clothed. Though, that, too, still worried Harry. Why bother? He was already half-there -

He again felt the trace of a flashback threatening to engulf him and to bring him to a whimpering and trembling mess, he was moments ago, when he thought that Voldemort was that _creature_ , that _thing_ from his half-remembered nightmarish memory -

"Potter, you make my head explode!" In a matter-of-fact voice informed him Voldemort. "I am feeling generous, so you have ten more minutes. Drink your potion!" Voldemort retreated back to the bathroom, picking something from the drawer of the wardrobe on his way.

Heaving another sigh, Harry grabbed the vial and took the careful swig of the shimmering rainbow-colored liquid, half-expecting it to taste bitter or nasty. Surprisingly, it was almost tasteless, with just a tint of sweetness, lingering on the tip of his tongue. All in all, the feeling the potion left in his mouth and throat wasn't bad: a bit cool, but not painfully. His throat was already feeling better, just from this small sip. He upped the potion, ignoring his conscious telling him to be vigilant and careful. He doubted, there could be something worse than what he'd already faced before. And he was not remembering his previous encounters with Voldemort, at that matter, but rather thinking of the events leading him here.

"Ah, good boy, Potter! You could also do with a bit of pepper-up and headache potions, while you're at it," Voldemort, having returned from the bathroom once again, produced two more vials with the potions.

Harry eyed them suspiciously, spared a quick glance for Voldemort, scowling at his antics, after which decided to brave it and accepted both vials, as well as the cup of nicely-smelling broth, which Voldemort conjured for him: "You need something more solid than magically induced water in your system to function properly," came the snide remark at seeing Harry squinting his eyes suspiciously at the cup, too, like he did for the potions. "If you're going to suspect every little thing, better begin from this bed and pyjama," Voldemort suggested dryly. "And do continue onto how you'd happened to appear here, going through my wards, like a hot knife through the butter, not even denting them and not tripping the various alarms. Ah, and while you're at it, from exactly where you came here, too, I'd rather hear."

Harry managed to finish all of his potions and half of his cup of broth, while Voldemort was positively _ranting_ , not even stopping to catch a breath.

Harry coughed experimentally, trying his sore throat. The potion really did miracles, he thought, and although he felt more like whispering hoarsely would be easier, than trying for the full voice, he began to answer some of Voldemort's questions rather truthfully.

"I don't know about your wards. I woke here, after nasty concussion and loosing consciousness. I – well, I was at my summer house. And then came here," he finished a bit lamely. "Don't know anything more, really," Harry added for good measure.

Voldemort _hummed_ in thought.

Harry tried really hard not to gape at that.

Voldemort looked him in the eye critically.

"It should not be that simple," he half-asked.

"What?"

"You coming here. Through wards. To my house. To my _bed_ ," Voldemort winced slightly at the double meaning. "Something happened. I just need to analyze -"

And then he stood up from the chair, which he'd conjured earlier, and left the room.

Harry was left gaping and perfectly free to go if he wished, if a bit under-dressed and a tad unhealthy.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Harry said there for a while, looking wide-eyed at the door, which closed behind Voldemort. Going out of his stupor, Harry looked around him, taking in the minor details of the small room he was in.

All the furniture and doors were made from dark and expensive looking wood, as well as the bedding, canopy and curtains. The room in general was nicely-looking and, what surprised Harry a bit, it was made not in Slytherin green and silver colors, but quite neutral dark-blues, dark-grays and rich browns. The sheets were made of silk, which was not strange for such person as Harry perceived Voldemort to be, and curtains around the bed and on the windows were made of rich velvet. There were no other decorations aside from that, although Harry noticed a brass candelabra on the shelf above the fire place, with the remains of six candles in it. The fireplace itself was lit, despite the warm mid-Summer temperature, and the flickering flames made the room seem even more comfortable, adding homey tint to the neutrally-pleasant atmosphere of the place.

Harry once again found himself looking at his own reflection in the mirror between wardrobe and the bathroom door. He still looked a wreck, though now some color returned to his cheeks, probably because of potions and the broth he consumed earlier.

Harry quickly glanced at the door, behind which Voldemort disappeared, before slowly standing up and going to the bathroom.

There he once again was frozen in surprised stupor: the bathroom was huge in size, almost as big (or maybe even bigger) as the bedroom outside, and most of the space was overtaken by the enormous bathtub, looking rather like the one in Prefects' Bathroom at Hogwarts. Also there were big shower cubicle, sink and toilet. All of these were made of dark blue and gray marble. There was of course another mirror above the sink, which frame, too, was made of dark blue marble. Several hooks along the walls were occupied either by dark-blue towels and fluffy bath-robe, or by some wizarding clothes (robes, slacks and such). Several pairs of shower slippers were lined up along one of the walls. Which surprised Harry even more, there was laundry basket with something in it and several wash-basins, both small and big, were occupying the little space of the floor left around the borders of the bath. Two of them even had some pieces of clothing soaking in them.

Harry blinked slowly, processing the view. For a moment there he thought he had seen this pinkish water somewhere -

Shuddering, Harry turned to the shower pensively. He would rather like taking long and steaming hot shower, washing away everything, as was usual, almost ritual for him for the last sixteen years.

He didn't even managed to remove the bandages from his chest, when he heard an annoyed growl behind him:

"Just what do you think you're doing, Potter?!"

Jumping on the spot, Harry turned around to face angry-looking Voldemort.

"I wanted to take a shower. If I'm allowed to, of course," Harry quickly added.

He'd got furious hiss as an answer to that.

"No shower, then," Harry sighed and tried to go past Voldemort to return to the bedroom.

"Potter, stop!" came harsh command.

Harry flinched, but not at the tone, as he was used to getting the same quite often, while being at his relatives'. It was just that Voldemort grabbed his wrist, when Harry passed him, and Harry was anticipating the inevitable pain, which usually followed any touches of him by the Dark Lord in the past. Only, this time there was no pain. Confused, Harry looked at the man in front of him, who was still holding him by the arm.

"What now?" Harry grumbled. "Are you going to -?"

He was interrupted by abrupt movement of Voldemort: he pushed Harry towards the bathtub.

"I am merely displeased by those moronic and depressive thoughts of yours. Don't mind the laundry now and undress. You can do that by yourself, don't you?" Voldemort asked mockingly.

Harry uncertainly looked at the gigantic bath. He had a feeling, that it should be deep like the Lake at Hogwarts.

Voldemort snorted, quite possibly guessing his thoughts.

"There is no Giant Squid or Mere People there, you know. And it won't eat you. Here," and before Harry could protest, Voldemort was gently taking away the bandages, which covered his upper body. "All my work for nothing now," Voldemort muttered lowly and chuckled, seeing Harry's dumbfounded expression. "Did you, per chance, think these were put on you by some Healer, who happened to pass by?" Voldemort was snorting again.

"Yo-you put them on m-me?!" Harry stuttered.

"Yes. Is it so hard a concept to grasp for your measly brain?"

"Bu-but -" Harry trailed off, at a loss for words.

Voldemort finished with the bandages and led Harry to the tub, before he could process all the bits and pieces of information and put them together.

"I will return in exactly three minutes. You can remove the rest of the bandages and sit in the water, while I retrieve some clothing for you," Voldemort gestured towards the tub, which began to be filled with water, coming from the brass crane in the form of a snake head. "The water will stop on its own, when there is enough."

Harry was getting used to general abruptness and sudden departures of the Dark Lord, but he still eyed the retreating form warily before taking off the pants and removing the bandages under them. He was pleased to see that there was no serious damage there, or at least it was not visible. Although he felt discomfort every time he made a step or shifted wrongly. Harry then proceeded to carefully and slowly low himself into the tub, wincing, when the hot water reached some of his wounds.

When Voldemort returned, as promised, in about three minutes, Harry boldly asked:

"Why?"

Voldemort blinked in surprise.

"Why what exactly?"

"Why all this," Harry gestured around him. "Why you stay in bathroom with me? Why bandages?" ' _Why are you being nice?'_ remained unsaid, though they both knew the question was there.

"To begin with the easiest one, I don't trust you in the shower all by yourself," Voldemort pointed at the scar on Harry's throat. "I was able to get the glimpses of how you've come to receive this."

Harry winced at his bluntness.

"It was, err, an accident of sorts. And anyway, why do you care?" he snarled, suddenly enraged. "Shouldn't you be glad if I were gone? What's the difference? Or are you not happy, because it was not done by your hand?"

"I do not know," came simple and honestly sounding reply.

"What do you mean, you don't know?!"

"If you continue with such tone the potion for your throat would be another "work for nothing". I'd appreciate it if you'd just get on with your washing instead," Voldemort suggested. "And in silence," he added acerbically. "Your clothes," he motioned to the nearest hook. "You can utilize any towels in here, though I'd suggest you avoid using my personal bath-robe," finishing his instructions Voldemort turned his back to Harry, but clearly this time he was not going to leave.

Huffing in annoyance, Harry quickly washed, trying not to move too much, so as not to make splashes on the water. He suspected, if Voldemort heard any sounds he would decide Harry was trying to get himself drown. Harry was not eager to know how Voldemort would act upon this assumption.

After several minutes of heavy silence the Dark Lord decided to remind Harry of his presence.

"The blood would not stop. Last night, no matter what spells I used, you continued to bleed severely. The only thing that helped somewhat were bandages. Any magic I tried did not sink in properly, before I remembered the muggle way of stopping the blood." Voldemort's voice was thick with some strange emotion, but Harry could not comprehend what it was. Anger? Disgust? Loss?

"Then why - ?"

"You were right. For some part at least. At first I had sincerely thought, it was wrong merely because it was not by my hand. But then I thought – and still think, mind you – that I should learn of the person who did so much damage, when I had not been able to even get a scratch on you. Not mentally, at least. Maybe in terms of physical pain I am more of an expert -"

"You are not," Harry snorted, but with bitterness in his tone. "There are worse 'experts' -"

He was interrupted by continuation of Voldemort's speech:

"Why do I care? Because there is something, some magic pulling me to you, bidding me to do something, anything to help you."

"Did you say _magic_? And here I thought you suddenly grew a heart!" Harry said with a sniff. "And if you want to help you can begin with these blasted bandages. Looks like I'm bleeding again -" Harry was cut off by sudden movement: in a blink of an eye Voldemort was on him, eagerly grabbing him by the upper arm and dragging him out of the water and out of bathroom in an instant.

"You can dry and dress in the bedchamber, no need to stay there."

Harry decided that from now on he won't be surprised at anything anymore. All of this was too much, too bizarre, but his nerves were too thin as they were, so he had no more surprise left in him.

"Wha-"

"Healing balm, blood-replenishing potion, another for your throat. I'll put the balm, and you should drink your medicine," Voldemort commanded. "Turn around. No, don't put on clothes yet, I need to check the progress of the healing first and to put the balm on the wounds, remember."

"I still don't get it," Harry muttered. "You can put it with magic, no?"

"And I've said already," Voldemort grumbled annoyed. "Half of my magic is not working on you for some reason. So we'll resolve to muggle ways for now."

And then he took the pot with the herbally-smelling concoction from Harry's hand and began to gently apply it onto Harry's back. Then his hips. Under knees. When the Dark Lord crouched down to put some of the medicine on his calves, Harry was practically melting under his touch. It didn't help, that the balm was slightly cool, which was pleasant in itself, as it soothed the small pains Harry had almost everywhere. Harry gulped audibly and staggered slightly, blindly grabbing first thing that happened to be there for support. He heard low hissing, and realized with a pang of slight fear, that he grabbed Voldemort by his hair. Definitely, this should be the last snowflake, bringing down an avalanche of Cruciatus, angry shouting and pain. A lot of pain. He shuddered.

"Tingles?" calmly asked the man at his feet.

"What- Yeah!" Harry quickly agreed. He didn't dare turn and look at Voldemort, but he very much wanted to do so.

It was getting curiouser and curiouser!

"Your potions," reminded him Voldemort. "We still need to talk, so I recommend to drink the one for your throat immediately. It needs time to make its work."

Harry sighed, but obediently drank the potions.

"Take the balm. I recon, you'll be able to finish putting it on your arms, chest and below yourself."

Harry hurriedly grabbed the pot from the Dark Lord's hand, before this unbelievable man changed his mind. Harry was sure it would be even more awkward if his chest was touched by those strangely gentle hands, and the area below his waist was just – eww -

"Come," beckoned him Voldemort, when he was finished with the balm, and reluctantly accepted help from the Dark Lord with the bandages and clothes. "We will talk in the parlor."

Harry followed him out of the room, shaking his head in disbelief and snorting lowly.  
 _Bedchamber!_ _Parlor! I wonder if he has dungeons here, too?_

"Talk, Potter." urged him Voldemort, when they were seated in two comfortable armchairs by yet another fireplace in the "parlor". This room was on the floor below the bedroom and on his way here Harry noticed the staircase leading even lower, either on the ground floor, or in the dungeons, as he thought earlier.

The parlor was, too, done in blue and gray colors, with bookshelves along all walls bar the one with the fireplace. In front of the later two armchairs stood on the small round carpet of undefined blu-gray design.

"I still would like to hear how you'd come to my place and in such a state." This time Voldemort was more calm. "You should understand that this is indeed a very guarded and very secret place, known and accessible only to me. So I am very curious to how you managed to get here and how it was possible without disruption of my warding spells."

"I have already told you, I do not know!" Harry responded with annoyance.

"One minute I was at my summer house in the shower, and next – I am here."

"What did you think of at that moment, before appearing here?"

"I – I don't -"

"Was you, by any chance, willing to be somewhere else? Anywhere?"

"I don't know," Harry mumbled, hanging his head. "I was tired – Wanted it to stop – Everything to just stop -"

"Why were you tired?"

"Listen, if you think I'll spill my guts to you simply because you fed me and healed my wounds, you are mistaken! It's none of your business, why I was tired or what I was thinking at that moment!"

Voldemort took loud intake of air, exhaling it afterwards in one long breath, seemingly calming himself.

"You don't seem to realize that it is very serious matter, Potter. I have seen and felt your flashback, I know you tried to kill yourself. I, however, don't understand the reason behind such a drastic action. Do not get me wrong, I am no psychiatrist and do not wish to become one for a suicidal teenager. But you need to talk about it, nevertheless. Or we can do it the painful way, I can easily use Legilimency on you, taking your memories and thoughts by force." - Harry's face lit up with hope at that words. - "And then we will still need to talk about it." - Voldemort added nastily, which visibly deflated Harry. -"But then the discussion may include much more than you're willing to talk about right now, like, for instance, the location of the Order of the Phoenix or other secrets of the war going on." - Voldemort raised a mocking brow.

Harry stubbornly shook his head.

"You may try Legilimency on me, drug me with truth serum or whatever. I am not talking."

"Then Legilimency it is," Voldemort sighed resigned. "I'd apologize, but you're not leaving me a choice."

And just like that, before Harry could have braced himself, Voldemort turned to him fully, lightly touched his temples with his fingertips and locked his eyes with Harry's.

Harry felt like he was falling, no, flying, or no, falling it was – right into those dark-blue and bleeding to red eyes, which were turning to purple whirlpools, drawing in them -

And suddenly he once again was at Privet Drive, in the broken shower cubicle, looking enthralled at the nicely-pink water and ice-like shards in it. Taking huge chunk of glass, weighing it on his palm and thinking -

All those thoughts were once again flooding his mind: exhaustion, disgust and loneliness, and at the same time strange detachment, when thinking of how the Dursleys would explain his disappearance, and what Dumbledore would do now without his poster-boy, and how glad would be Voldemort at this -

And then he was simply tired, and everything was of no importance anymore. He wanted all of this to stop, true, but -

But even more he wanted to there be somebody, anybody to care. Not about the bloody boy who lived, may he rot in hell which was his life anyway, not the chosen one for whom everyone waited to save them. No, he wanted for at least one soul, even tiny one, or a part of a soul, to care about him, just Harry. To care and to save. To help -

He came to the present with a sob, shaking all over, feeling nauseous and dizzy in the head.

Someone cursed colorfully and loudly.

Harry didn't want to open his eyes, as the world sure was going to spin, judging by the dizziness he was still feeling.

"Potter, breathe!" Voldemort barked.

Harry startled. But this got his breath to become more even. He opened his eyes and met the furious blood-red gaze.

"What happened before?" the Dark Lord demanded harshly.

"Before?" Harry blinked in confusion.

"Why were you in such a state? What was the reason?"

"What do you mean? I thought you saw everything."

"Legilimency allows to read minds, but if the mind is blank -"

"Blank?" Harry still couldn't understand.

"Either blank, or warded. There is some kind of a wall there, I can't pass it."

Harry shrugged.

"I don't know."

"How the cubicle become broken?" This question in silky insinuating tone made Harry frozen on the spot. Once again his breath caught.

"I – I don't remember -" he admitted slowly.

"What exactly do you remember?"

"I – I came home – there was only Vernon, my uncle, he was drinking – I don't know!" Harry exclaimed frustrated. "I think he came to my room drunk, I am not sure. Then – you saw. I don't remember what happened!" Now his panic began in full force. He didn't care that it was in front of Voldemort. He didn't remember, but it should have been very important! Or he wouldn't be so tired as to try to stop it by means of suicide!

"Obliviate. And very strong one," Voldemort suggested levelly. "Or memory loss," - he hummed pensively. - "And it should be magic-induced, I suppose, or I would be able to look behind that wall. And if it's the latter case, it is very impressive, I must admit." That last bit was spoken with a disgusted sneer and clear reluctance.

They sat in silence after this for a long time. Harry was silently examining this new and surprising Dark Lord with his bizarre behaviour, while Voldemort seemed lost deep in thought.

"Potter," Voldemort called out after a while. "What was it about a part of a soul?"

"What?"

"Your thoughts. When you -" Voldemort trailed off uncomfortably. "You wished for help. From a part of a soul. What did you mean by that?" The question was harsh, as was Voldemort's piercing gaze.

Harry shrugged.

"No reason. I just – Well, I suppose I wanted help, no matter how small it was," he finished lowly, lowering his head. "May be, that's why I thought it. Don't know. Now I don't know."

"And I thought you have at least some brains in your big head," Voldemort remarked snidely. "Looks like I was mistaken."

"What do you mean?"

"Potter, you are a wizard. And quite powerful one. Think."

Harry shook his head.

"I don't know. And I have a headache right now, after you mind-raped me," Harry added acidly.

"Tell me something I don't know, Potter," Voldemort responded in the same acid tone. "If you forgot we have this mental connection from the moment I've tried to kill you -" He abruptly cut himself off, eyes widening. "Bloody fucking hell!"

Harry snickered. He couldn't help it, he felt that Voldemort was not used to cursing, judging by the clumsy way he did it.

"Silence!" Voldemort hissed harshly in commanding tone, before quickly standing up and going to one of the bookshelves. He paused in front of the one shelf, then shook his head and moved to the other, took several books from there and brought them back to the fireplace along with a pile of blank parchments and a quill with an ink-well.

Next hour and a half they sat in silence, which was disrupted only by Voldemort frantically leafing through old-looking tomes with loud rustling of paper. Sometimes he was scratching something on the parchment, which was perched up on his knee, or muttering something under his breath. Harry was pretty certain he heard Parseltongue half the time as well as some foreign languages mixed with Latin.

At last Voldemort made a satisfied sound and looked up at him. Harry shifted uncomfortably under his calculating stare.

"Did you find something?" Harry inquired curious. While he watched Voldemort with his books and parchment, all worked up about some scientific problem, Harry was strongly reminded of his best friend, Hermione. She, too, always was glad and eager to research practically anything – small or big, important or no, sometimes simply for the sake of research itself.

"Potter, remind me again, how you become a Parselmouth?" Voldemort practically purred.

"You – you tried to kill me -"

"Yessss -"

"What it has to do with anything?"

"Potter, I'd suggest you go lay down first," Voldemort suddenly said.

"Why? What did you find?"

"Potter, I think I know the reason."

"And? -"

"Tell me, Harry, what do you know of Horcruxes?"


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Tell me, Harry, what do you know of Horcruxes?" Voldemort murmured almost seductively.

"Come again?" Harry almost did a double-take there. "Horror-what?"

"Potter, did you wash your ears just now?" Voldemort growled annoyed. "Or is it purposeful – twisting my words the funny way? Because I want to remind you, it is very serious issue. Live or die situation. And that's not me who could be dying, I want to remind you."

Harry shook his head.

"It's the first time I am hearing this word."

Voldemort looked like he wanted to roll his eyes at that. He sighed exasperated.

"It is highly advanced and the Darkest magic of them all – the Horcruxes. It's banned, of course. Almost forgotten, too. In simple terms, the Horcrux is the piece of one's soul, enclosed in an object for safe keeping, ensuring the immortality of the owner of that soul. Even if one's body is destroyed, his soul lives on in that object and serves as a means for resurrection, should the owner of the soul cease to exist."

Harry frowned pensively.

"What this has to do with - ?"

"To split one's soul in order to create a Horcrux one should perform a special ritual, but the main point is to kill, as killing splits one's soul anyway."

"I still don't understand -"

"You are my Horcrux, Harry."

"Wha-what?!"

"Fifteen years ago I've killed your parents. I'm afraid, this kill allowed me to involuntarily, accidentally create a Horcrux out of you. The ritual demands one to be on the edge, life-wise. To be almost dead. That night my own Killing Curse rebounded off of your mother's shield, almost killing me. If not for you -"

"It's rubbish! It can't be! I am not an object!"

"Is it the only reason for your denial? I can assure you living beings are perfectly fit to be Horcruxes as well. This can be proved by both you and my snake familiar, Nagini, as she is yet another Horcrux."

"Another? How many did you make?"

"In your own words, that's none of your business, Harry," Voldemort smirked in satisfaction.

"Are you sure it is safe to tell me about your snake being this Horror- Horcrux?"

Voldemort snorted.

"You don't seriously think I will let you go, now that you are here and I know what are you to me?"

Harry shrugged.

"Never hurts to try. So, what's now? You're going to wrap me up in cotton and hold to your chest, so that I won't shatter, thus ruining your soul-piece?"

Voldemort scowled.

"I should punish you for your cheek," he muttered darkly.

But Harry thought, that he'd hit the bull eye there, rightly guessing the Dark Lord's plan for himself.

"I don't think I'll agree to this, you know. I don't fancy being treated like a piece of furniture _again_ , thank you very much!" Harry narrowed his eyes. "And I am not into this "let's kill all the muggles and mudbloods" stuff either, so don't bother dragging me into your ranks as well."

"Who said anything about 'dragging you into my ranks'?" Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "And nobody asked what you 'fancy' here, Potter, it is not a matter of choice."

"Choice?" Harry snorted bitterly. "What is it? Never heard of this thing. Everyone just assumes I am their bloody mercenary, or their treasure or whatever!" Harry pointed accusing finger to Voldemort's chest. "You are going to put me in your treasure box, are you not? Dumbledore wants me to fight for their stupid Order of the Blasted Ostrich! I had never had any choice!"

Voldemort spared him with another calculating stare.

"And what would you choose, given the chance? Hypothetically speaking, of course."

Harry gave a shrug in response.

"Never had time to think either. Don't know. Maybe Quidditch, or teaching DADA at some school, Hogwarts or maybe even Durmstrang. Don't think I'd go to Beauxbatons, this Veela business is kind of freaky."

"Teaching Defense _Against_ the Dark Arts at Durmstrang? Hmm, that would be entertaining," Voldemort chuckled. "You do know, they specialize in the Dark Arts themselves?"

Harry snickered.

"You're right, I didn't think of that. But anyway this sounds like fun – teaching at Durmstrang! Maybe I can learn some Dark Arts to later teach it there, eh?"

"Are you not averse to the idea of the Dark magic?" Voldemort sounded genuinely interested. "With you being the Golden Boy -"

"But that's the thing! I am not! They never questioned, remember? Never asked how I feel about the Light or Dark -"

"And how do you feel about them?" the Dark Lord inquired suavely.

"Again, I don't know. Hadn't had the opportunity to look into it, or even to think over properly," Harry responded nonchalantly.

"Hmm. I'll see what I can do about it."

"Eh? Hadn't you just now given me no choice?"

"Potter! Knowledge is power! You may not act upon it at times, but it can be of use, nevertheless."

"Isn't it like secret motto of Slytherins or something?" Harry snorted. "Know thy enemy, eh?"

"That too. Though I'd advise against using it to fight me," Voldemort smirked. "I have more than sixty years on you, in terms of experience and time for learning."

"You don't look like this," Harry noted. "By the way, I remember last seeing you all snake-like just recently. How did you manage to become human again?"

"Ah, Harry, I was always human – to a degree, of course." Voldemort smiled sweetly.

"That's not what I meant! I've seen you at the Department of Mysteries: all pale, bold and with snake features. And now you're absolutely normal. Well, except for your eyes. And you look way too young for your age. How old are you, again? Seventy? Eighty?"

"Potter, wizards age differently from muggles. And we have way more harmless means for sustaining our bodies in fit form. Not counting such extremes as Horcruxes, I mean."

"Magic can do that?! But what about Dumbledore? He looks like grand-grandfather! And he shouldn't be too much older than you, no?"

Voldemort shrugged.

"Beats me. When he was my Transfiguration teacher, he looked around fifty. Should be around hundred-something now, judging by that. Quite possibly he dabbed in some of the more Dark magic rituals at his times to age so visibly."

"Dumbledore? Dark magic?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Why not? He is not averse to hypocrisy. Waving the banners of Light and meddle with the Dark magic is usual of him."

"Do you have proof?" Harry questioned with curiosity. "About the Dark magic, I mean. He is definitely the bearer of the Light banners, that's true."

Voldemort waved a hand dismissively.

"We are not talking about Old Fool and his shadow ways now. You, on the other hand -"

"Why are you so determined to learn what had happened to me?" Harry changed the subject abruptly. "It should not matter. With me being your Horcrux, shouldn't you be more concerned in swaying me to your cause, that ostracizing me in any way?"

"In what way this is ostracizing you? You need to address the issue, so that it will not arise again in the future. I will not have you kill yourself over some insignificant nonsense."

"I am not some 'damsel in distress' to revert to suicidal actions at every corner! I say you leave that wall in my mind where it is. I don't think I want to know what's there, seeing as my own mind conjured such a wall obviously to protect me from some huge accident."

"You contradict yourself, Potter. Who just an hour ago was hysteric because he could not remember what happened?"

"I decided I don't want to remember." Harry grumbled. "It's not like it could affect anything anyway. Whatever happened, it's in the past."

"Denial? Potter, is that it?"

"It would be denial, if I could remember at least something. And seeing as it's not the case -"

"It looks like you begin to remember. And don't want to."

"Yeah! Don't want to! So sod off, will you! We've already learned that you can't do a bloody thing with it!" Harry's angry outburst ended as quick as it started, he slumped in his seat, deflating. "It's too much," he mumbled in harsh whisper.

"Potter, if you're truly beginning to remember, there is still the option of Legilimency. Maybe your mental wall is shattering and I can look beyond it."

"Don't." Harry hunched over, covering his face with his hands. "Just don't. Please -"

Voldemort blinked in surprise. Did Potter just say ' _please_ ' to him? He shifted in his chair uncomfortably and pursed his lips.

"What do I hear, Harry? Are you begging me?" with no small amount of mockery inquired Voldemort.

Harry just glared at him sullenly.

"Okay. Enough of that. I am willing to let it slide for now, but this issue will be addressed at some point in near future. How are you feeling?"

"What?" Harry looked at him incredulously.

"Your wounds. How are they?"

"Fine, actually," Harry responded surprised. "My throat's sore, but aside from that, I'm more or less okay."

"No pains in your backside or, well, below?"

Harry shook his head.

"Tiredness? Suicidal wishes?"

Harry let out an angry hiss.

"I have already said, that was an accident!"

"Then we will dine and afterwards you will return to bed for your rest." Voldemort stood up and held out a hand to Harry.

Harry stared at this hand for a full minute before gingerly accepting the help without a word.

Voldemort led him to the next room on this floor. It was the kitchen, so small, that one could reach anything while sitting at the table – stove, cupboard or sink were squeezed close to each other with barely enough space for walking between or in front of them.

"Sit," the Dark Lord commanded.

Harry obliged, taking one of the two seats available. Voldemort took some vegetables out of the cupboard, along with the sauce-pan, cutting board and knife.

Harry expected him to use his wand, or maybe to order Harry to do the cooking. Instead Voldemort got to cutting the vegetables himself. As in "with his own hands". Harry barely managed to refrain from gaping at this. The Dark Lord proceeded with putting everything in the sauce-pan and lighting fire under it, finally using his wand, added some water and spices and turned to Harry, who was still staring.

"It's impolite to stare like this," Voldemort calmly remarked. "Meat or fish?"

"Wh-what?"

"What do you prefer, meat or fish?"

Harry blinked.

"Fish it is," Voldemort decided, when Harry still gave no answer after about a minute. He turned back to the stove, stirred the stew in the sauce-pan and once again looked inside the cupboard. "Alas. We don't have fish. Okay. This will do, I suppose." He procured a can of meatballs in some sauce.

Harry was feeling like gaping again. Voldemort cooking? Eating muggle canned food? Not using magic at every turn? Not ordering his cohorts to get him food or house-elf for perusal? Harry shook his head and covered his face with his hands.

"I think I'd gone mental and now actually lay in St. Mungo's", he muttered.

"What are you mumbling there, Potter?"

"I'm mental. You're mental, too. We both are in 's, maybe I am even on the bed next to you. This is just some very strange dream of a crazy psycho."

Voldemort chuckled.

"What brought this on?"

"You can't seriously think I'd believe that's like you actually live? In small cottage, cooking by yourself and eating canned-food? The greatest Dark wizard of our time?"

"Add to it "the most wanted criminal of our society" and you'd hit the bull-eye there," Voldemort snorted. "It's called paranoia, Potter. Of course, I have big mansion, three house-elves and loads of gold and other valuables, but those exist only for my people to see. I'd said already, nobody knows of this place. And it is not safe to bring a house-elf here, too. Circumstances force me to do everything by myself. As for canned-food, I do not often eat here, and don't see the necessity of keeping any substantial food here, which could deteriorate quickly."

"Why not accio it from your other place? Or bring with you?"

"The less magic going through the wards, the safer."

"What of these veggies? They could get bad quickly, too."

"I've bought them in the nearest market on my way here yesterday. I didn't of course expected anyone else, so didn't buy any meat. I don't eat too much of it anyway."

"Voldemort – vegetarian?" Harry squeaked, loosing it completely, and burst out laughing. "No way! No bloody fucking way!"

"Language, Potter."

Harry just laughed harder after this reprimand.

After a while he calmed a bit, enough to start another round of questions.

"So why don't you eat meat? Do you pity poor animals, or something?"

Voldemort huffed.

"I don't pity anyone. It's just not very healthy to stuff oneself with animal fat all the time. I am perfectly able to consume a steak once in a while without pouring tears over it."

"And how're canned meatballs healthy in your books?" Harry retorted.

"They are not. But I don't have too much options here."

"You could have charmed that cupboard as a freezer of some sort, you know. Aren't you a genius?"

"The less magic in this place the safer."

"Paranoid maniac," Harry snorted.

"That I am," Voldemort responded in kind.

While they talked, he opened the can and emptied the contents in another sauce-pan for heating.

"You've mentioned the nearest market. Is it far from here?"

"Several miles away."

"Wow. That should be a special level of paranoia. Several miles! Why I get the feeling you walk them by foot every time?"

"Because I am. After Apparating here and there to confuse any one who be following me, then use untraceable Portkey to the village some healthy paranoid distance away and finally walk here on foot."

Harry winced almost sympathetically.

"Now I got how you're so fit," he snickered. "So much exercising!"

Meanwhile Voldemort retrieved couple of plates and glasses for them and served the food.

"Sit properly and eat, Potter."

"Is that wine?" Harry looked at one of the glasses, which was filled with some red-colored liquid. The other glass was empty.

"I'd offer, but you're still on potions. So it's water for you," the Dark Lord smirked. "And I don't need drunken suicidal teenager here."

"I can hold my liquor, you know," Harry muttered. "And I am not suicidal!"

"What you are is in denial about it. So shut up and eat your food, Potter!" Voldemort growled, finally loosing some nerve.

The rest of their meal went in silence.

Harry was not surprised when afterwards Voldemort got to washing the dishes. By hand, of course. Harry was ordered to drink his potions and sit in the kitchen during the time the Dark Lord put everything in order there and made the dishes.

"You will now rest, Potter."

Once again Harry was led back up to the bedroom.

"You may sleep or read, but stay in bed. I need to step out for a while, but will return in couple of hours. I hope I will not find you cold body here upon my return."

Harry just sighed exasperatedly. He was tired of telling that he was not suicidal. Just the same, Voldemort was not believing it. So he simply followed the order and got to bed, with intention to sleep for a while.


End file.
